The Worthy Enemy

A few seconds later there was a crash. Dawson dropped the Steyr while running towards Gaines, pulling off her trench coat and then her shirt to ball it up and press it to the man's head. He took it in one hand and put pressure on it, causing it to darken red immediately.

Dawson peered out of the shattered window. Goro had landed on the Cadillac parked in front of the main entrance. But though the imprint of his body was visible on the roof of the car, the yakuza himself was nowhere to be seen.

Gaines emitted a heavy sigh and shut his right eye as blood began to seep over his brow. He muttered, "Should I ask who the hell that was?"

"Someone who thinks we ruined his life," Dawson replied. "I got a feeling we haven't seen the last of him."

"Yeah," Gaines groaned, "I got a feeling too. Somewhere up top. Did it look back?"

"I think you're going to need a hair transplant," she informed him.

About ten seconds later, three Knight Errant troop transports pulled up to the Orchard and heavies began spilling out of their opened rear doors.

= = =

Cranston survived and would even get a new prosthetic hand, courtesy of Knight Errant. Collateral got a commendation but decided to retire, and all the other department heads were given a month off to seek therapy or otherwise decompress. Gaines allowed a medic to treat his head but wouldn't consent to setting an appointment for a skin graft. He wanted to see how the scar affected his public image first; studies showed they could be 'humanizing.'

The Matrix attack had knocked all the Orchard's surveillance and communications systems offline just long enough for Ishikawa and his cohorts to get to the board room. That was no casual feat--he did have connections. Cranston had killed one of the tusks but the other gangers had survived until medical attention had shown up. While they took them away, one shouted she had important information to barter. Dawson would have to watch what happened to her.

"You know," Gaines said, sitting in his chair at the head of the reset and re-bolted table, "When you first asked me to help you fight the gangs I had this idea that the person you were trying to protect from retribution was yourself. That someone might come after me... Never crossed my mind."

"Mine either," Dawson admitted. She sat on the table, her trench coat back on over her remaining sleeveless undershirt. "Guess the railgun design was pushing it. That's the only thing that could have hinted at who the suit was made by."

"At least you know it's working," he observed. "Flak's always heaviest when you're on target."

"I'm sorry," Dawson offered. "This shouldn't have happened. I should never have mixed my work on the street with what you try to do here."

But he waved his hand dismissively. "What are friends for, if not almost getting each other killed?"

She smiled slightly. He grinned back. Her commpad chimed and she pulled it out to read the message. Her smile vanished immediately.

"I need to go."

"Got more pressing matters than surviving assassination attempts?" he asked.

"Hard to believe, I know. Lets just say it's another matter of life and death."

= = =

She returned to consciousness slowly, throwing off sleep and inebriation like a heavy and sodden, though warm, blanket. The first thing she realized was that she was on a hospital bed, light padding and thin sheets beneath her naked body. The next thing she realized is that her wrist was handcuffed to the bed.

Pulling on it softly, she tested the bond and found it adequate to hold her muscle, though she could probably reach down and chew through it if she had a mind to. She opened her eyes fully and surveyed the warm room, some part of the opera house that had been converted into a makeshift clinic. A few machines were pressed to the walls, fit in between old instruments. One right next to her beeped quietly, presumably a heart monitor paired with a small cup attached to her left breast.

The only light in the room was from display screens. But they were more than enough for her to make out the trench coat-clad woman sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed.

She licked her lips, feeling a small measure dehydrated. She asked, "How'd you find me?"

"I didn't," Impulse said. "Tranquility sent me a message. She said it took her an embarrassingly long time to realize you weren't me. The woman has a PhD in biology but your tongue was apparently so good she felt no need to remember that about herself."

She smiled weakly. "I'm good for something, at least."

"She also said," the detective continued, "That you drank enough psilocybin to entirely erase an ordinary person's mind. If you were hoping to forget who you are, you should have copied someone with a lower tolerance for having a good time."

"I can admit," she muttered, "I've made a few mistakes of my own, separate from the ones I've imitated."

"When the girls told you I'd already come and gone from the apartment, why didn't you just stay there? Wait for me to come back?"

She thought for a moment. "I was hoping I was the real one, and you were the copy. Somehow. Seems a little silly, in hindsight."

"You haven't done anything wrong," Impulse said softly.

"I am something wrong."

"Tranquility tells me you have all the same parts I do. You have the same organs, the same brain chemistry, the same memories. You have a few extra pieces up stairs and your bones are more flexible, your teeth sharper and some of your muscles are significantly denser than mine but physically you're nothing metahumanity hasn't seen before...

"But spiritually," she went on, "You're suffering from symptoms of essence decay. You don't have any cyberware so this shouldn't be happening to you."

"I didn't get enough," she recalled. "I was supposed to take it. To take it all."

"You were supposed to kill the person you were to copy?" Impulse asked.

"It doesn't take much to start changing," she affirmed. "But it's the act that matters most."

"When you look at me," the human asked, "Do you feel a want to commit that act?"

She turned her head away quickly. "I don't kill people."

Impulse didn't speak for several moments. "Not even to save your own life?"

"Especially not for that."

"What if you do what you did the first time?" she wondered. "Could you stop your decay if you had more?"

She couldn't keep from baring her teeth. "I'm not going to beg you. I'm not going to live like some kind of... parasite. Stealing something from someone else just so I can keep being a... a fucking fraud. And... you don't deserve that kind of curse."

Impulse slowly reached down and picked up the Taurus Omni-6 from below the chair she was seated on. She broke open the cylinder and looked at the lone round remaining inside of it. "Dragon's breath. Clever. Looked like it was working. Scared the fuck out of me when I saw you shooting people with it."

"They're not people. I'm... not a--"

"I don't believe that," Dawson said. "Whose initials are these? JP? Did you get this from Pickers?"

She didn't answer, but Impulse was smart enough to draw conclusions. "That's why he tipped me off. When did you meet him?"

"The night I was... born, I guess."

"You work fast. My baggage must feel pretty light when you only just started carrying it."

She couldn't keep her mouth from forming a smile. "Even baggage seems like treasure when it's all you own."

"You're going to die in a few days, when your essence finally depletes."

"I'd rather go out on my terms," she declared. "I don't want to go back to being... blank."

Impulse stood. "So don't." She set the Taurus on the chair and took out her balisong from her pocket. With one hand she opened it up, and put the blade across her palm.

She sat up in the bed. "What are you doing?" She wanted to move away, but the handcuff was holding her in place.

"You don't want to die," Impulse said, "But you don't want to take a life. You won't have to. Even though there's a whole world of people I'd suggest you try to emulate before me... There's no accounting for taste."

The sound of the blade biting into Dawson's flesh made her squirm. Blood, bright and fresh, welled up around the edge.

"Don't," she pleaded. "Not for me."

"I've already made my choice," Impulse told her. "If you're me, if you have my mind, you know I don't change it easily. I want you to live."

"I shouldn't exist," she insisted. Impulse's lips pursed in a brief show of frustration.

"No one exists on purpose!" she hissed. "If you have my memories then you know that I sure as hell wasn't on purpose. Nobody wanted me when I showed up in this world... You can't say that. Because you're here now... and I want you to be."

The hand came close to her face, and the scent of life--of her radiant essence--was almost overpowering to her.

"So for both of us... Please. Stay."

The thing she'd unconsciously craved from the moment she knew how to crave was right in front of her, offered freely. Essence... The thing that would root her siphoned soul to this monstrous body. The thing that would make her whole... Given, as a gift. Because someone wanted her to live. And not just anyone; she, whose life she had been designed to steal.

She took hold of Impulse's wrist in her hands and breathed in the scent, felt the warmth close to her lips. The gentle beating of the human's heart thrummed through her veins and her own thrummed in sympathy. She could never be this woman; this woman was already here. But she was willing to share. She was proud, but she had no pride. It did not offend her to be imitated.

Her tongue came out and lapped at the offered palm. Was she weeping? She found she was, beneath the salt and the heat and the sweetness of shared essence. She shuddered, and drank, and swallowed. It made her whole; it made her complete, and into something new. To take would have made her a horror, corrupt to the core. But as a gift it made her something else. Something closer to the human whose image she'd been crafted in.

It did not take much. Even a few cells more would have been sufficient to stabilize her. By the time the blood had stopped she was kissing Impulse's hand. When she let it go and emitted a sigh, she looked up at the woman and was greeted with a small smile.

"Are you with me?" the human asked. "At least for now?"

She smiled back. "I'll give this life thing a try. Let you know if I want to endure it long-term."

"Great," Impulse said, stowing her knife and walking to a nearby table to clean her hand with a rag. "Now what are we going to call you? Because I don't want us both looking at someone whenever they say 'Dawson.'"

She tossed something small her way and she caught it in her other hand. The handcuff key. As she was working on it, she thought out loud.

"Call me Instinct," she said. "That's what got me into this mess."

Impulse put her hands in her coat pockets and smiled at her. "I have to admit," she said softly, "That's kind of cool."

Instinct smiled back at her. "I got my sense of style from my twin sister, who's a few minutes older."

That earned a chuckle. "Guess that's what we'll tell people. Should work, as long as you don't bite anyone's arm off on camera again."

"No promises," Instinct warned. "I bet that really scared that Cutter straight." She took the shirt and pants Impulse had brought for her and fit them on. They were just the right size.

When they emerged from the converted clinic, Candles stood up from the seat he'd been in. Beside him was his flamethrower, not lit but no doubt fueled.

He looked at Instinct and his jaw dropped. "Holy fuck. Dawson... you never told me you had a twin fucking sister! My dick is about to die and go to hell where it fucking belongs!"

Instinct looked at Impulse. "Did you bring him here to burn me, in case I was less than cooperative?"

The woman shrugged. "Needed an ace in the hole in case you got the better of me."

"Alright," Candles said, bringing attention back to him, "Tell me what I need to do to make this three-way happen."

"It's not me you have to convince," Instinct said.

The ork pointed at her and beamed. "Now that's what I'm fucking talking about! Dawson, I love your sister already!"

Impulse turned to her and scowled. "I'm not vain enough to want to fuck myself... Am I?"

"You are," Instinct informed her, "But you're too humble to admit it out loud."

The chime of a commpad receiving a message went off and both women put their hands on their pockets, though of course only Impulse actually pulled one out.

"Ohh, that's so damn cute," Candles marveled, "You really are twins."

The women shared another look before Impulse looked at her pad.

"My contact in the Bloody Tusks just told me where their warlord is going to be in two hours." She looked at Instinct. "Last night, at that chemical warehouse... Some of those things got away. I can't ignore those. I'm going to have to let Lone Star handle the go-gang while I try to track these horrors."

"Hey," Candles said, "Does this have something to do with that thing I torched on the street, night before last?"

Impulse started, "Almost..."

"...certainly," Instinct finished.

The ork shuddered. "You do that almost too well." One rubbed the back of her head sheepishly. The other grinned, impish.

"I'll need the suit to fight these things," Impulse sighed. "And it'll fuck me if Neon Justice appears somewhere and I'm not on this raid to catch Ionfist. Sokoth is already suspicious."

Candles shrugged, unbothered. "Plenty of room in the shadows for someone with your skills, and your body." Impulse rolled her eyes.

"Give me the suit," Instinct said. "I have your biometrics, I can operate it. I'll appear in public while you're with Lone Star somewhere else."

Raising her brows, Impulse worked her tongue in her cheek for a moment. "Fuck, that's brilliant. Don't know why I didn't think of it."

"I think you did," Instinct assured her. "You've wanted to be in two places at once plenty of times.

As they were leaving the opera house, Tranquility met them by the door. She took Instinct's hands in her own and kissed them.

"You are always welcome with Mother Earth," the witch said. "You and that... gifted tongue of yours." Her eyes slid to Impulse. "And you as well, detective."

Candles butted in between them. "What about me?" he asked. Tranquility frowned.

"During the New Moon celebration," she intoned, "All are welcome. Outside of that, Mister McGuire... Keep your napalm to yourself."

= = =

This machine was made for her. Not just in the tools it offered, the mobility and the protection and the power to subdue without taking life. It was made for her, with her in mind. It required every part of her to turn on: retinal scan, fingerprints, voice recognition, SIN confirmation... Without them all not even the lights would turn on. When the foam inside inflated it fit her body like a glove, and the virtual sensory pod in the assembled helmet turned every diode into a camera that made her feel omniscient. The hydraulics made her feel weightless, as did the jump jets.

Yes, it was made for her. Well, for someone just like her. It fit around this Dawson just as tightly and securely as it did the original. She piloted it down the street brazenly, looking at people as she passed them. Go-gangers fled from the sight. Beat cops called for back-up, not bothering to try to arrest her on their own.

She followed the call, no longer feeling pain from it. She could listen and she could ignore it as she chose. She was complete now, and It that Stared would not touch her. She was anathema to It. This was how she preferred it.

Instinct was led to a small, seemingly derelict building in Seacliff that had an excellent view of the Golden Gate bridge to the north. Inside it, under the cold gaze of the Executive, Elazar Havelock was twenty-one minutes from turning on his machines and unleashing another wave of horrors on San Francisco.

He never got the chance. She knocked once on the door, prompting the heads of the remaining horrors to swivel toward it. Havelock looked up from his keyboard at the security display and though he hadn't been watching too much news, even he recognized the visage of the one they called Neon Justice.

She pulled the door off and music flooded in, loud and thundering.

"Oh, whoa, no I can't pretend to tell you lies... The heat that's flowin' through my veins, will eat your love alive!"

Without words they swarmed towards her, expressing blades of bone and teeth that could rend flesh, should they find it. She had to duck to get in, then stood up to the suit's full height.

"'Cause I---- I'm the devil in disguise! The will is strong, the flesh is weak! You see it in my eyes!"

The Executive she shot first, a superheated rod right through the forehead that passed through the skull and struck a container of liquid copper, spilling its boiling contents onto the computers around it. The riot shield came out and she began pounding others into the walls and floor. Havelock dove for cover, screaming something that couldn't be heard above the blaring music.

"Call me--me the manimal! That's wha--at I am! Call me--me the manimal! HALF BEAST! HALF MAN!"

The fighting was swift and brutal and entirely one-sided. There was no morality to consider, no empathy that needed doling out. This was justice, and target practice. Exercise for an array of good causes. Instinct destroyed everything within her reach and ravaged the things she couldn't get to directly. She found Havelock hiding behind an overturned plastic research table with a Fichetti Security 600, which he aimed at her and fired three times. The.32 rounds bounced harmlessly off the suit's helmet as she closed one fist over the weapon, breaking his hand in the process.

With her other hand she picked him up by his dingy lab coat and carried him outside.

"Call of the wild, I'm a lunatic child! I wait in the bush, I watch you and smile! Dinner's at eight, I can't hardly wait! I'll eat you alive, baby don't you be late--"

The music cut off as she set him down and Havelock, cradling his mangled hand, looked up at her from behind his filthy glasses.

"Well?" he asked flatly. "What are you waiting for? Get it over with."

"I don't kill people," the suit's speakers declared.

Havelock scoffed. "This whole world runs on death. Pretending it doesn't doesn't make you brave, it just makes you stupid." Behind her something volatile ruptured in its containment tank, causing a small explosion.

"A lot of people died because of what you did. I'd ask why, but I'm not sure I care. There's no excuse that would be good enough."

"It's inevitable," the scientist claimed. "Turning the clock forward on this world is a mercy. In truth, better than it deserves."

"Your perception of mercy could use some work. But I know some people you can debate about it with."

Sirens filled the air as the Lone Star patrol cars she'd spent the last hour collecting finally caught up to the scene. She engaged the jump jets and leapt to the top of the building and then away, towards the southeast. The police pulled up to the scene with guns drawn, and Havelock was left to watch his last few years of work go up in flames.

= = =

Julius was about to enjoy his first glass of the day when the unfortunately familiar sound of heavy booted footfalls caught his ears.

He muttered, "What a way to ruin a fine flavor." Detective Dawson appeared in front of the bars a few seconds later, hands in the pockets of her black trench coat.

"Hello, Mister Megiddo. I'm pleased to see you're still where you belong after recent events. I heard there was something of an occasion here and I admit I was briefly worried you might view it as an opportunity to get out early."

"Detective," the elf said with obvious distaste, "I'm so flattered you felt the need to... check on me. It reminds me that I'll be around when you're nothing more than a name in a file on a forgotten server about to be shut down to cut costs."